


Tickets

by SkysongMA



Series: This Is Not About Love [10]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: The man kept his head down as he unbuttoned the cape and let it drop. Then he lifted his head, and G.B. felt like he’d been gutted from top to tail.Marshall Lee hadn’t changed all that much. He’d lost weight, and it showed in his face—painted with garish makeup that highlighted his stark cheekbones, the hollows beneath his eyes. He was looking the other way, but a smirk spread across his face as he looked over the crowd. He’d grown back his dreads, at least; he’d never looked right without them.G.B. dropped his head and turned his face away, covering it from Marshall Lee’s view with his hand. His heart was pounding; he felt it in his temples and wrists more than his chest because he was pressing them to each other, trying to erase the image in his head.No, no. Not after so long. Not like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Tickets" by Maroon Five.

“Jeebles!”

G.B. placed the phone on the table. He always conducted conversations with Fionna via speakerphone; she was too likely to deafen him otherwise. Anyway, he was conducting delicate work. He scraped flour off the top of the container and set it on the scale. “Yes, Fionna?”

“I’m going to a concert tonight!”

“That’s very nice.” Adequate flour. G.B. took four eggs from the carton and cracked them into a bowl in quick succession. “I take it you’re excited.”

“Yessss. And I’m getting in for free, and you should totally come!”

G.B. frowned at the four perfect yolks floating in the bowl. “I fail to see the connection there. I don’t like concerts.”

“But it’s just a little thing. And Cake won’t let me go by myself.” Her voice belonged as an audio sample under the definition of “whine.”

Nevertheless. G.B. would never argue he wasn’t a pushover. “…I’ll call you back when my cupcakes are done. If they are exemplary, I can spend time with you. Otherwise, I have to fix the recipe.”

He meant to ask who they were seeing, but Fionna shrieked when he mentioned cupcakes and demanded to know what flavor.

***

Cake dropped them off; she was going to Monochrome’s. G.B.’s responsibility was calling the taxi to get them home. Or to call Monochrome if something bad happened. And make sure Fionna didn’t get her face kicked in or something. Whatever bad could happen at a concert.

Someone was taking tickets at the door; instead of producing any, Fionna took out a heavy silver ring. The ticket-taker nodded and passed it back to Fionna, waving them in. Something about the ring tickled G.B.’s memory, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

G.B. associated this kind of club more with poetry readings than rock concerts: low lighting, small tables, a little wooden stage. But he didn’t mind; he hated crowds. The thought of spending several hours close to other sweaty bodies had not appealed to him. Better this way.

Fionna took a table near the front and started spinning the ring on the table. “Soooo you never told me what kind of cupcakes you made.”

G.B. took off his jacket before answering. From one of the pockets, he produced a tiny tupperware container, which he passed to Fionna. “Try it and tell me what you taste.”

Fionna grinned. She licked the frosting off first. G.B. had seen her eat cupcakes so many times that he hardly minded this one; he was looking at the ring, trying to remember where he’d seen it before. Or if he’d seen it before.

Probably just one of those things. He looked to the stage, but it was empty and dark.

“Is it maple-bacon?” Fionna licked some crumbs off the base of her palm.

“And brown sugar. Did you taste the brown sugar?”

Fionna nodded. “I was gonna guess that next.” She knotted her fingers together on the table, fidgeting back and forth. “Yeah. It was good.”

“I’m pleased. I was happy with the result, too.” He smiled at her and reached across the table to ruffle her hair—well, hat, but still. Fionna’s hair so rarely made an appearance that it came to the same thing.

“Is it gonna go on the list?” Her voice was almost a whisper. Fionna seemed to view his list of cupcake recipes as some big secret—and maybe it was. He hadn’t shared the idea with anyone but her, and only because Fionna was far too earnest to laugh at anything he said.

And far too in love with him, but G.B. tried to ignore that part. She’d grow out of it.

G.B. shrugged. “I have to think about it. Maple-bacon is really trendy right now. I don’t know if I want to be trendy.”

Fionna began to list off other ideas, as she always did whenever this came up. G.B. nodded attentively as he claimed the container and the wrapper, then tucked them in his jacket. He was not being a very good friend: he was only pretending to listen.

He’d seen that ring before. Where? He prided himself on his memory.

Then the lights dimmed. Fionna squeaked. “Oh! It’s starting!” She scooted her chair over by his, her eyes fixed on the stage. G.B. moved his knees away from hers and set his elbows on the table. At least he wasn’t expected to stand up.

A drummer came onstage first, testing the cymbals and the kick drum. They must have already done the sound check, because the levels sounded good to G.B. Then a guitarist, claiming an instrument that already sat on stage. He strummed a few chords; somebody wolf-whistled, and he flashed the horns. Then a keyboardist—no flashy demonstration from him.

“Who’s the lead?” G.B. asked, glancing between the band members. None of them looked like front man material: the drummer was chubby; the guitarist had acne. Maybe one of them had a voice he’d dream about or something.

Fionna glanced at him. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s—”

But G.B.’s question was answered before she finished her sentence. A slim figure in a red cape strode onto the stage. Beneath it, he wore a cravat and jeans. A top hat was tipped low over his face, hiding his features. Nonetheless, a bunch of the audience started cheering, including Fionna. G.B. clucked.

Before he could scold her in Cake’s place, the newcomer took his place at the microphone. G.B. hushed, because he was never rude enough to interrupt a singer. The man kept his head down as he unbuttoned the cape and let it drop. Then he lifted his head, and G.B. felt like he’d been gutted from top to tail.

Marshall Lee hadn’t changed all that much. He’d lost weight, and it showed in his face—painted with garish makeup that highlighted his stark cheekbones, the hollows beneath his eyes. He was looking the other way, but a smirk spread across his face as he looked over the crowd. He’d grown back his dreads, at least; he’d never looked right without them.

G.B. dropped his head and turned his face away, covering it from Marshall Lee’s view with his hand. His heart was pounding; he felt it in his temples and wrists more than his chest because he was pressing them to each other, trying to erase the image in his head.

No, no. Not after so long. Not like this.

He touched his chest; only then did he realize he was gasping like a beached fish. Fionna hadn't noticed because the band had struck up the opening chords to something—did he know the song? He felt like he did.

He glanced at the ring on the table and felt another sick lurch of his stomach. The last place he had seen that ring? On one of Marshall Lee's fingers. Of course. They were his good luck charms.

Good luck didn't exist. This wouldn't be happening if it did.

G.B. got to his feet, one hand groping in his pocket for his inhaler. Now Fionna glanced at him; her eyes went as wide as dinner plates. "OMG! Are you okay?"

He managed to talk like a normal person, even though he was still having trouble drawing breath. "Fog machines. Just—need some air. Be right back. Don't move."

He walked outside before she replied. Only then did he take two puffs from his inhaler. The taste of envelope paste filled his mouth, but his lungs relaxed, and he let his head fall back against the wall as he drew in his first full breath. One hand moved to his chest, massaging the muscles even though it wouldn't make the medicine work any faster.

Of all the nights. Except that any night would have been "of all the nights" because G.B. had already written Marshall Lee out of his life. Marshall Lee had left.

He told himself he only wanted a minute to collect his thoughts, to put away all his scattered feelings, but it must have taken him longer than he expected. Fionna came out to meet him, her eyes still wide with worry. She touched his arm, a nervous apology in her eyes. "Sorry. I should have thought about your asthma before I brought you here. Is that why you don't like concerts?"

G.B. shook his head. He tipped his face back again, staring at the stars instead of her face. The problem with Fionna was that she would never judge him: he always said the things he didn't mean to when he looked into her eyes, and there were plenty of things he never planned to say where Marshall Lee was concerned. "No. I just... I hate crowds. This was all right. I just—wasn't expecting the smoke. I'll be all right now."

He wanted to tell her to go back in without him, but he'd made a promise to Cake, and Fionna had a talent for getting herself into trouble. He always took his duty to watch her seriously, even though most of Cake's concern was paranoia.

So he took in another deep breath, and then he pushed himself away from the wall. "Yeah. Come on, let's go back in. You're missing your concert." He tried to sound jovial, since he couldn't manage excited, but it must not have worked, because Fionna took his arm again and kept glancing at his face.

  
When they sat back down, Marshall Lee had his back turned to the audience. G.B. was glad they hadn't come in mid-song; Marshall Lee's voice had always undone him. Part of the reason he was so glad Marshall Lee had left. G.B. liked being in control of himself; he did not appreciate being unmade. Never mind what he might have thought at the time. He’d still been in high school and thus young and foolish. He was older now. He didn’t need that in his life.

Fionna scooched her chair over next to G.B.'s again, still watching him. G.B. brushed a hand over his hair. "I'm fine, Fionna, really. I took my medicine. It works for four hours."

"Yeah, but you—"

Before she could explain her but, Marshall Lee turned around again. He still had the same guitar—that big heavy red bass, the one G.B. could hardly lift. How Marshall Lee managed it, G.B. would never know. "All right. This song is about being awesome, so everybody had better be awesome while I sing it." His eyes moved over the crowd again; G.B. dropped his eyes to the table, hoping his haircut and the hand in front of his face would be enough to disguise him.

Something twisted in G.B.'s gut. What if Marshall Lee recognized him and didn't care?

And why did that matter?

Still, he couldn't make himself look up. He pretended to glance at the stage when Fionna looked at him, but she had gotten into the song and was shouting the words along with the rest of the people here.

It was the potato song. Of course. How many times had they sat around trying to find rhymes for potato? Enough that G.B. had demanded to know why Marshall Lee wanted to write a song about potatoes.

"Because nothing rhymes with 'cupcake' either," he muttered at the table. He'd thought he'd forgotten most of the things Marshall Lee said to him, or at least buried them better. Apparently not.

Some people got up and started dancing when Marshall Lee did a cover of "For Your Entertainment"—of course he liked Adam Lambert—and Fionna jumped up to join them almost immediately. She tugged on G.B.'s arm, but he shook his head. "We can leave if you're still not feeling good," she insisted, peering into his face.

"I am incapable of breaking your heart like that. I feel fine. I just don't like to dance." He pried off her fingers. "Go. Have fun. Please don't mosh."

She hugged him—G.B. couldn't tell if it was concern or excitement—and then she jumped away. As far as he knew, she didn't know anyone who was already dancing, but that was never a barrier for Fionna. Everyone new was just a friend she hadn't met yet.

Oh, he shouldn't be a jerk. Especially because once she was less excited, she'd try to pry the reasoning out of him, and he could not tell Fionna about Marshall Lee.

Fionna caught his eye, and he sighed, but without much feeling. If he was dancing, he wouldn't be thinking of Marshall Lee.

He went out to join her, and they danced—crazily, like they always did, spinning with their arms above their heads, occasionally catching each others' hands to gain more momentum or bumping into each other. This way, among other people, G.B. could almost forget he was dancing to Marshall Lee's voice.

Only not really. Only not at all.

Maybe if Marshall Lee was still singing covers, but he had switched to a different song, the one that said it was about fries but was really about Marshall Lee's fucked-up mother. At least it was loud and screamy; too many of Marshall Lee's songs had been quiet and soft, made it too easy to think.

And, anyway, G.B. kept wishing he would get some kind of reaction from Marshall Lee, that he would make the kind of scene he was so good at. He'd pull his mic from the stage or yank the amp cord out of his bass, refuse to play any longer because G.B. was listening, and apparently Marshall Lee hated G.B. enough to leave without a goddamn word.

But nothing happened, and G.B. felt so small and insignificant it was all he could do to keep dancing.

***

The band took a break after that, so they sat down again. This time, they talked about Cake and Monochrome and what kind of seedy things they were getting up to. It amused them both to have their best friends so in love, but it amused them even more to mock them. And thinking of them meant not thinking of Marshall Lee, so it was good.

The conversation lagged, since there were only so many jokes you could make about the dulcimer, and Fionna began spinning the ring on the table again. G.B. caught it without thinking—the noise drove him nuts—and realized he was holding something that had last touched Marshall Lee's skin. He removed his hand, quickly, and bit back a sigh of frustration and disgust. Fionna watched closely, but maybe she had figured out that he was not going to answer her questions. She rested her cheek on her hand.

"So where did you get this?" G.B. asked, before he could stop himself.

Fionna's face broke into a bright smile, and she straightened. "I didn't tell you?" She was delighted. "It's a great story!"

G.B. smiled, despite himself; she could make anything sound exciting, even walking to the convenience store for milk. "No, you didn't. Explain, please."

"So this guy hit on me, right? And then I broke his arm. Same old, same old."

G.B. immediately glanced at the stage, even though he hadn't seen a cast on Marshall Lee.

"Not him! A jerk!" Fionna smacked his arm to get him to look back at her. "Marshall Lee helped me out. I wanted to call Cake to get a ride home, but my phone was dead, and I was, like, way out there, and he let me use his phone. And then he talked and he told me who he was and I freaked out and—"

"Fionna. Take a breath."

She obeyed and continued as quickly as before. "And then he told me he was doing a show tonight, and he gave me his ring so I could get in! I'm going to talk to him after the show. Or at least give him his ring back. He's really nice. I wasn't expecting him to be nice."

Nice. Right.

G.B. glanced at the stage again. Marshall Lee had struck up another song, but it was instrumental; he was focused completely on his bass. G.B. looked away, trying not to remember how many times he had sat and listened to Marshall Lee practice. "Where did you hear of him, anyway?"

"Internet." Fionna cocked her head to the side. "Didn't I make you listen to that song? It's a great song."

G.B. shook his head. Fionna was always trying to make him listen to different musicians; he tended to filter her out because they were such a weird combination of thrash metal and gentle indie songs. He got whiplash. "I would have remembered."

"You always remember," said Fionna, with such confidence that G.B. felt small and inadequate. "I wanna dance again." She raised her eyebrows, but G.B. shook his head. With the slightest of disappointed sighs, she skipped back out to join the throng of dancers.

G.B. set his chin on his palm and tried not to think about how he would avoid speaking to Marshall Lee after the show.

***

G.B. could not remember a time when he didn't want to keep his promises. He did not have many people who held him to his word, after all, so fulfilling his obligations wasn't usually difficult.

This was different. This was torture. The worst part was--Fionna was so happy. Not that she wasn't always happy. He could count the number of times on one hand that he'd seen her distressed or angry that lasted more than five minutes and still have enough fingers left to hold a whisk. And... worst of all...

He spent time with Fionna because she was different around him. Lots of things made her happy. Fionna was always pulling on his hand, pointing at cute dogs or a leaf falling from a tree. The phrase "born yesterday" was supposed to be an insult, but Fionna really did seem that way, only it was glorious for her. Everything was new and beautiful, even if it was cracked and broken. Because it was cracked and broken.

And so. G.B. could not break his promise to Cake and leave Fionna alone to meet with Marshall Lee. Cake was always terrified Fionna would get herself hurt, that some scary stranger would catch her and ruin her life. This was patently ridiculous without even mentioning the idea that somehow G.B. would be the one defending her from harm. No. If they ever got into a serious fight, G.B. would be screaming like a little girl, and Fionna would be in front of him, teeth bared and fists up high, like she was always trying to show him.

But. More importantly. G.B. could not take any chance at ruining Fionna's happiness. He could never give her what she wanted, and she knew that, somewhere inside her, but he could never explain why he couldn't give her that. Fionna thought he was gay, and G.B. supposed that was probably true, even though the thought of any kind of human body touching his had always filled him with disgust and always would, with the only exception ultimately proving the rule. No. Fionna thought he was a guiding light, a knight who didn't wear armor. And awful as it was of him, he could not break her heart and tell her the truth, that he was as wounded and ugly and disgusting as everyone else in the world. Someday Fionna would realize that not everyone deserved her time. G.B. just couldn't be the one who broke that to her.

Anyway. That was a long way of explaining how he found himself walking behind Fionna, one hand up in front of his face even though he knew it would do nothing to protect him from Marshall Lee's scrutiny. Fionna, thankfully, was too nervous and excited to pay much attention to him.

“Are you still doing the sign-y thing?”

Marshall Lee lifted his head. His face was briefly flat, and then he brightened, and God was it awful to see him smile. “Hey! Fionna the face-puncher!” He held his hand across the table; Fionna slapped it he yelped. “Bitchin! You came—”

He paused. G.B. tried to shrink even further into himself, even though he knew it was already too late. “Bubba?”

Fionna’s jaw dropped. “Your name is Bubba?” She clapped her hands to her mouth. “You two know each other?”

G.B. straightened and shoved his hands in his pockets. Fine. There was no getting around it, so for God’s sake he would stop being a coward and face it. “No. It’s Barnabas. But—yes, we did.” If only that were the half of it. If only that were anywhere close to the truth.

Marshall Lee’s mouth moved, but no sound came out for a long moment. G.B. couldn’t help but search his face for any sign of recognition, of guilt, of the same need that woke G.B. up in the night sometimes, even now—but there was nothing but shock. “What the flipping fuck?”

“Marshall Lee! Watch your mouth!” G.B. couldn’t help himself. The words just popped out, like they were having dinner with Pepper and MoChro somewhere nice and G.B. actually cared what Marshall Lee did because he wanted someone to like him.

Marshall Lee blinked. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry. Was there ever a time you could boss me around?”

G.B. glared back, words already burning their way up his throat like vomit. Then Fionna made a stifled noise, and G.B. glanced at her. Her lips were trembling; she looked at both of them like they’d given her a puppy and then run it over with their car. In front of her. On purpose.

G.B. let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, just below his glasses. It did nothing to slow the beating of his heart or stop the pulse of his temper in his veins. He should have known better than to think anything good would come of this, good reason to try or no. “I’m sorry, Fionna. I’ll just—go outside. This has nothing to do with you.”

“No,” said Fionna and Marshall Lee at the same time. Fionna was pleading; one hand seized the crook of G.B.’s elbow, like she wanted to press up against him, but she didn’t quite dare. G.B. supposed she had never seen him truly upset before.

And Marshall Lee… well, there was no point in guessing what he sounded like. G.B. would just be wrong.

G.B. glanced between the two of them again, lips pursed. “I understand why you don’t want me to leave,” he said, patting Fionna’s hand. The gesture relaxed her, at least, so she wasn’t standing tense like she was waiting for the monsters to come crashing through the wall. G.B. tried to stop there, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know why you would. After all, you’re the one who left.”

Fionna pulled her hand back suddenly, squinting like she’d been asked to solve a quadratic equation. “Waitwaitwait. Were you guys, like, boyfriends?”

“Absolutely not!” G.B. snapped, color high in his cheeks.

Marshall Lee tossed his hair, his voice flat. “Like I’d ever fuck someone like you.”

“Marshall Lee.” G.B. let out a deep breath, trying to calm the instinctive way his whole body had tensed at the word boyfriends, trying to drown the dreams that had resurfaced. He’d wanted that word once.

But there were more important things than Marshall Lee. G.B. had moved on. He had his own life now, and he was not going to let someone like Marshall Lee ruin it. “I would really appreciate it if you did not use such—language. At least in front of Fionna. Swear at me all you like—since it seems to be the only way you and I can communicate—but she doesn’t have to hear that.”

Fionna pulled down the ears of her hat. “Jeeze, Jeebles. It’s not like I’m twelve. I know all those words.” She looked—and sounded—miserable.

Marshall Lee glanced at her, and his face softened. He spoke to G.B., but his eyes were still on Fionna. “You should go outside. I promised Fionna a conversation, and I can’t talk like a human being when you’re here.”

G.B. sighed again. This time it was relief, glad that he didn’t have to try and convince Fionna again. “It’s for the best, Fionna. I’ll be out front, all right?”

“But—” Fionna twisted her hat’s ears. “…All right. I’ll just be a minute.”

“No.” G.B.’s voice was firm. “Take your time. I want you to enjoy yourself.” He turned and walked out before he could hear Marshall Lee speak again. Before he could remember that the last time he heard Marshall Lee speak, it was to make a promise. A promise G.B. had been stupid enough to believe.

***

Though he was hardly patient, G.B. did not mind waiting for Fionna. Every time he closed his eyes, the spiraling started again—how much he wished he’d refused to come here!

And it wasn’t just seeing Marshall Lee. He wanted Fionna to be happy. He’d ruined what should have been a good time.

Because, of course, he did not care what had happened to Marshall Lee.

G.B. touched his lips, compulsively, and decided to think of something else.

***

Fionna came out about ten minutes later. “So, um, you don’t want to tell me about that, do you?” The last time he’d seen so much twisting of her hat, she’d failed her math test.

G.B. didn’t say anything; he felt too many things at once. Several flavors of guilt, for ruining Fionna’s night and being a drama queen and a priss and his inability to convince her he was incapable of liking her that way. Anger. Regret. A dozen other things he couldn’t parse out, all thanks to Marshall Lee.

Ugh. He’d been very happy without all this feeling crap.

Fionna swallowed. “I mean, I know it’s none of my business. I’ll just—”

“Fionna. It’s okay. You have every right to be—curious.” He cleared his throat. “Let me call a taxi, and then I’ll tell you, okay?”

She nodded, watching his face with quiet anxiety. He tried to ignore it as he took out his phone and dialed the number; it would only make him lose track of what he was saying.

Then he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He sat on the steps beside her, trying to get his thoughts in order. Apparently, his two-second pause was too much for Fionna—as he should have known it would be. “Um. I only wanted to know because both of you seemed really upset—I’m not, like, trying to snoop or anything—”

“Fionna. I know.” She closed her mouth; G.B. reached up and took her hands off her hat. “You’ll ruin it at this rate.”

Fionna blushed and fisted her hands in her lap. “So what, then?”

She was watching him with wide, rapt eyes. G.B. ran a hand over his hair. "It's really—not that interesting. It's not like some great secret."

"But nobody knows anything about Marshall Lee! He doesn't even have a Wikipedia page—people keep trying to create one, and it gets deleted right away. I know. I've checked." She had switched from twisting her hat ears to twisting her skirt; she was chewing on her bottom lip. "And you... you never get upset. I mean, you get mad when I swear or when somebody uses improper grammar, but—not really mad. Not like you really care. I guess it was just... weird."

"I suppose it was—rather out of character." He wanted to make her stop fidgeting with her skirt, but he didn't want to touch her again. She would get the wrong idea. And he didn’t want to risk admitting how right she was. “We… we were acquaintances. A few years ago.”

Now he was chewing on his lower lip; he made himself stop, but only by force of will, and he couldn't look Fionna in the face because he didn't want her to see his expression. Thinking of Marshall Lee made him feel like his intestines were spaghetti twined around someone else's fork. "We fought all the time. I mean, all the time. And then he left. I haven’t seen him in two years. That’s all.”

It felt so small, explained like that. Like it hadn’t left a smoking crater in the middle of his past, a layer of ash demarcating his life before Marshall Lee and after Marshall Lee as clearly as the ash layer that proved the existence of the comet that wiped out the dinosaurs.

Fionna frowned.

"You're chewing on your hair, Fionna. Stop it. That's unsanitary."

She obeyed, brushing the hair away from her face. She slipped her hat off her hair and sat with it in her hands, although now they were still. "So why were you friends?" Her voice was honestly curious.

He'd explained it to her all wrong. If he could only really tell her—really make her see—but what would be the point? What was he even trying to achieve?

He pressed his hands against his temples. "Look, Fionna, that's really all you need to know. It's fine if you like Marshall Lee as a musician—I'd be the first to say he's extremely talented. I just don't want anything to do with him. We—we already said everything we could to each other."

Fionna didn't reply. When he glanced at her, she was thinking very hard, studying her lap and tracing the seams of her hat again and again. "...I'm sorry. I won't bring it up again. Next time I want to see him, I'll just bring Cake, okay?"

"That would be best." He managed to collect himself and looked at her properly. She was upset, but nothing that wouldn't fade with time. He'd ruined this night, certainly, but there would be others.

Oh, but he still felt horrible. He put his arm around her. "Listen, forget about it, all right? It has nothing to do with you."

She looked up into his face; for once, he didn't see the hope that he would kiss her. "You're my friend, aren't you? I don’t want you to be sad."

G.B. had nothing to say to that.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter is written but needs a lot of editing. Still. Hopefully up sooner rather than later. I've been working on this series for, like, five years, so I'd like to have this be the end of it.


End file.
